


Keeping tabs

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond is being workplace-inappropriate, Established Relationship, Flirting, M/M, Q resents extensive loss of equipment, fun with some fluff and a teaspoon of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4805780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mallory is exasperated, and Q is tasked with designing a new brand of sub-dermal trackers for the 00 agents, so he decides to go big or go home. Naturally, he picks Bond as the guinea pig to test the new tracker. It goes more or less as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping tabs

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short ficlet, 1.5k max, I don't know what happened!

* * *

00s are notoriously difficult to keep track of.

They tend to veer off into CCTV-deprived alleys, go off-road into areas of poor or nonexistent mobile service, more often than not they _chuck_ the mobiles in the first place, and sometimes actively avoid making contact. Occasionally they’ll send up a flare in the form of a particularly spectacular explosion or other media-attracting incident, but those can hardly be counted as gestures of good will.

They lose their GPS tracker-outfitted watches, get frisked at the least opportune moments, routinely damage their earwigs, and generally ruin all of their painstakingly designed equipment.

(Q is allowed to be bitter about this. It’s in his contract.)

The sub-dermal trackers, surprisingly, aren’t much of an advantage. Most of them have been implanted quite a few years back, which means they’re by now useless for various reasons - knocked out by signal jammers, cut out by resourceful opponents with a flair for dramatics (a species somehow always encountered by 00s), dead due to glitches or inevitability of time, or, as in the case of 003 and 008, removed by the agents themselves for whatever spiteful reasons.

And so, in light of all this (as well as 006′s most recent escapade off grid and having a MIA status for almost a month, only to resurface in Paris, in bed with twin models), Mallory has tasked Q with designing and constructing as fool-proof trackers as possible when dealing with the likes of 00s.

Heathens and irresponsible pyromaniacs, the lot of them.

No respect for other people’s work and the refined artistry of the equipment they utilise mostly by _throwing_ at their opponents in hopes of distraction. Or feeding it to local fauna. Reptiles, to be exact.

(Q is allowed to be bitter about the Komodo Dragon too.)

“Something _durable_ , something that won’t get killed by a jammer and won’t be detected by a sweep. And something they won’t _lose_ , for god’s sake!”

Easy for Mallory to say.

Still, Q is by no means one to refuse a challenge. So he gets to work, spending more time in R&D whenever he’s not occupied with navigating 00s through some more demanding stages of their missions, or thwarting attacks made against his beautiful firewall by some much too highly aspiring hackers. As if anyone could get through more than just the first two firewalls out the seven he’d designed.

(Yes, seven. Being cheeky and having a sense of humour is another thing he’s allowed.)

He plans out a few designs and quickly settles on the one which alerts of a threatening spike or other change in a person’s vitals. It’ll be more work, but Q considers it to be worth this. It can buy precious reaction time and increase chances that an extraction team will get to the right place at the right time. Especially if all other communication is severed.

Q doesn’t like thinking of the 00 agents as disposable, replaceable. In the strictly technical definition they _are_ replaceable, but in Q’s opinion it doesn’t mean they should so easily be treated as such.

Yes, he’s biased, yes, he’s got vested interest in this. Because nothing in no way could ever replace James for him.

And that’s _despite_ James still having the most abysmal equipment-return rate in all the 00 section. Bastard gets downright smug about this, sometimes. Especially when he makes up for it in bed and Q can’t help but be temporarily swayed each time. He blames it on the fact that between the two of them the sex is fucking excellent.

Maybe he should add a function that would allow him to remotely shock the agents when they lose their equipment. Negative reinforcement and all that.

At any rate, three weeks of emergencies-interrupted work after being given the task, he’s nearing the final stage of assembling the prototype. He’s very focussed on inspecting the casing, frowning at his workstation through the magnifier, when he hears the tell-tale beep of an access card and the slide of doors opening and then closing.

A very spooked and clearly harassed minion scurries in through the doors, followed by a very smug, entirely too pleased with himself 007.

He’d left James in bed eight hours ago, when going out to work. James had returned home in the afternoon the previous day, hammered by a triple jetlag from his latest mission (western Russia, three days later Laos, 36 hours later Argentina, the next day back to London), and he’d had just enough strength left to take a shower (Q supervised to make sure he didn’t drown or pass out) and fall face-first into bed with the mumblingly declared intention of sleeping for seventeen hours straight. He’d only half-woken briefly in the morning, when Q pressed an affectionate kiss into his hair before leaving.

He looks much better now - dressed in one of his sharp suits (perfectly pressed and spotless and ideally fitted and all) and much less tired, with a clever, shrewd gleam restored to his icy blue eyes. The cuts and scrapes are still visible and mark his face in a few places (including the three stitches Q had to put in for him just above his left temple, because if he’d left him to his own devices, Bond would have utilised dental floss or just continued to bleed on the pillow), but they seem to be healing just fine. His right wrist should be in a brace because it’s mildly sprained, but of course no such thing is happening.

“Terrorising my staff - feeling better, I see,” Q greets him wryly before temporarily shifting his attention back to the tracker.

The sharp mouth curls into a well familiar smirk of enjoyed amusement, and Bond prowls closer, much too nonchalant for someone who’s _yet again_ failed to return his equipment.

“Much,” he confirms, sauntering to a stop mere inches behind Q, _just_ close enough to be unprofessional and _just_ close enough that he knows Q must be feeling his body heat.

The bastard.

Q can feel him lean closer, leaving elusive fractions of an inch of space between them, and peering much too liberally over his shoulder. Q can smell that he’s showered again and shaved before coming over, and it puts workplace-inappropriate thoughts in his mind.

“Is that a new tracker?” James drawls into Q’s ear, slyly bracing one hand on the table, framing Q from one side. Q refuses to react.

“Yes. It’s supposed to be 00-proof. If it indeed is, it might just be my greatest achievement yet,” he jabs dryly.

James makes a short sound of contemplation, and Q can hear a playful note reverberate in his throat. What comes out of his mouth next, is no surprise, and neither is the hushed, lewd tone in which it does.

“Well, personally, I think your _greatest achievement_ was that time when you were on the comms with 009 and I went down on y-”

“Bond,” Q warns, carefully rotating the tracker’s casing while also trying to push down the hot wave of treacherous blush he can feel creeping up his neck and onto his face.

He can _feel_ the smirk.

(That isn’t to say he’s not proud of himself for not letting his voice waver during the incident James is recounting. Far from it, it was indeed quite an achievement, if Q says so himself, because James’ mouth is horrendously skilful.)

He switches to his laptop, quickly typing in commands and making sure the tracker is functional and performing the first basic trials well. James reluctantly takes his hand off the desk to let him pass, but smugly turns his body along with Q, initiating a playful brush. He also affectionately noses at Q’s ear for a brief moment, and Q doesn‘t stop the small smile that tugs at his lips in response.

James gets like this often, post-mission. Affectionate, loving, and in need of having it returned, which Q is always happy to provide. He’s plenty affectionate and loving at other times as well, but in the first two or so days after a mission that affection is a tinge more vulnerable, a shift so subtle that Q likes to think only he can notice it. Probably because it’s only _meant_ for him in the first place. The thought is flattering, but most importantly, it feels to Q like an honour.

“So who’s going to be the guinea pig?” James interrupts his thoughts with a nonchalant drawl in his ear and fingers brushing over Q’s hip.

“You,” Q replies. “And 003, since she’s also in the country at the moment. But _especially_ you.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve got the worst survival rate for any and all equipment, so I figure if Mallory wants this tracker 00-tested, you’re the one to go with.”

Bond clearly wants to get laid tonight, because he has the grace to at least _try_ to look semi-contrite. He’s not very good at it, and Q shoots him an unimpressed look.

“Try again, Bond.”

This gets his agent to smile and give up the pretences of feeling guilt. Or having a conscience at all. He’s going to get laid tonight anyway, because Q’s most definitely missed him and would like some proper reunion sex, thank you very much.

Q turns his attention back to his laptop, and after a few moments James drifts away, slowly strolling around the lab, though keeping a fairly close radius around Q. Even focussed on his work, he can occasionally hear James pick things up and tinker with them, because he always has to touch things, no matter how many times he’s told to be careful because half the things in R&D can blow his hands off. Just last week 005 got skin burned off her fingers because she just wouldn’t listen and kept playing with a prototype. Seven really is a lucky number.

Minutes tick by steadily. Only a few minions are around the lab, some coming and others going, and all steering clear of Q because 007 is on the prowl near him. Q really should have a chat with James about psychologically crippling his staff.

At some point, James' nosing around takes him to the cars section, where currently one Aston Martin naps hidden under a sheet. He lifts one corner and peeks underneath, childishly curious and intrigued. A passion for cars is one of the things they most definitely have in common. So Q smiles privately and looks up in time to see James turn to him, one hand still holding up the sheet, blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Who gets this?” he asks, clearly expecting a gratifying answer.

“006.”

He looks as though someone tore out a piece of his heart.

Q cannot help but chuckle, amused, and goes back to typing on his laptop. James stalks over back to him, radiating betrayal.

“It’s the newest model, how come Alec gets it, he won’t even _need_ a car this fast in the Balkans,” he objects. “Meanwhile, I’m in the Quartermaster’s bed every night. You could show some favouritism, Q,” he leers.

“I show favouritism every time I don’t deliver your head on a spike to budget meetings. Don’t worry, you’ll probably be going to Monaco in about two weeks. You’ll get a nice car, go on a joyride, and bring it back to me with two doors missing, only half a roof left, and a dead body in the boot.”

“You know me so well, love.”

He does.

* * *

Two days (and a few excellent reunion sex sessions) later Q has James in his office, ready to be the tracker guinea pig. James is on ten days of mandatory downtime between missions, and as per usual he spends most of this time around Q - at home and at work.

Mallory is with them to observe the new tracker’s first proper testing. Eve had been banned because nobody needs her meddling here.

“And this monitors vitals as well?” Mallory asks, watching a minion insert the tracker into a pneumatic syringe. Bond shoots the minion a predatory look and the minion cowers, hands shaking a little.

“Not exactly,” Q replies. “It’s programmed to react to health- or life-threatening spikes and drops in vitals. Jacket off,” he addresses Bond who doesn’t miss the opportunity to make a lewd face.

Mallory knows of their involvement, but hardly ever says anything, so as to retain whatever shreds of plausible deniability he can salvage.

“The tracking can be activated and deactivated, coordinates accuracy is half a square foot. I can pull up plans of any structure or terrain. Shirt,” he gestures at Bond who is clearly enjoying this.

It’s definitely only Mallory’s presence that stops him from coming up with something excessively indecent, but he still smirks and holds a smouldering eye contact with Q as he unbuttons the shirt. He slides the garment off, letting the expensive fabric whisper against his tanned skin, and the bastard knows very well what he’s doing.

“Turn around,” Q twirls a finger at him, voice cool and collected - the height of professionalism in the face of the two lovebites he'd left on James' collarbone just last night, now fully displayed to his boss. He really didn't think this through at the time.

Bond obediently turns around. Q opens a packet with an antiseptic swab doubling as a mild local anaesthetic, and he quickly and efficiently disinfects a spot between the nape of Bond’s neck and his left shoulder. On second thought, he rubs it a bit more to make sure the anaesthetic sets in, and takes the injector from the minion who looks exceedingly relieved that he won’t have to be the one to break James Bond’s skin.

“Now, this might sting,” Q warns laconically, ensuring the tracker sits properly in the chamber.

“I’ll survive,” James drawls as the injector is pressed against the right spot on his trapezius muscle. “Ow,” he adds resentfully when Q pulls the trigger and the tracker embeds itself under his skin.

“There,” Q types in a few quick commands on his laptop, and a red dot appears on a small map on the screen, accompanied by a steady _ping_ sound and a signature _007_.

While Mallory steps closer to the screen to get better acquainted, Q wipes a small bead of blood off Bond’s shoulder and puts a band-aid on the puncture mark. The band-aid is yellow and has got fluffy bunnies on it, and Q wonders if Bond will notice now or later at night, when getting undressed.

“It all seems to be working just fine,” he informs Mallory, and just in case hovers a detector over James' shoulder after he’s put his shirt and jacket back on. Nothing. An attempt with a signal scrambler yields similarly satisfying results.

"Alright then," Mallory nods. "In about ten days we'll have a proper field test in Monaco and we'll see how it goes. Carry on, gentlemen," and with that, he leaves Q's office.

James rolls his left shoulder to work out whatever mild twinge the implant had left there, and he fixes Q with a gleaming, enticing look, corners of his mouth up in a playful smile.

"Would the Quartermaster like some lunch?" he asks.

Q pauses, consulting his stomach as he realises he'd skipped breakfast yet again this morning. James doubtlessly knows that.

"Sounds splendid. Just - take away, yeah?"

"I wouldn't dream of pulling the Quartermaster out of his lair while it's still light outside," jabs James. Q ignores it studiously.

"Thai will be marvellous, thank you."

* * *

An opportunity to test out the tracker’s reliability comes up exactly eleven days and six hours later. Bond couldn’t even wait longer than one day and six hours to blow his cover identity, kill someone, _lose his gun_ , become actively sought by the Monaco police, sever all communications, and go into the opponent’s lair.

Q activates the tracker and takes a pensive sip of his earl grey as he pulls up the schematics to the seaside villa on where Bond’s location had pinged. Overlaying it with a map of the terrain shows that it’s located on top of a cliff overlooking the harbour. Plentiful opportunities to fall out the window.

He zooms in on James’ tracker in the basement where there are no CCTV cameras to hack into. The dot’s not moving. He’s either crouched up catlike in a dark corner somewhere, or he’s been captured, since this seems to be his preferred method of interrogating his enemies.

At any rate, the vitals are silent, so this at least means he’s not being tortured quite yet.

He takes another sip just as Eve hovers behind him, looking at the screens with interest.

“So how goes the field test?” she asks, glancing at the earwig signal highlighted in red and inactive.

“Well enough, so far. He got scanned with detectors yesterday and it all went well,” he summarises as he quickly connects with the villa’s CCTV cameras and pulls up eight different live feeds onto one screen. The people and the guards aren’t agitated or on edge, behaving calmly and occupying themselves with small tasks, which means they’re in all likelihood unaware of a certain MI6 agent lurking motionlessly in their basement.

“Hmm,” Eve peers critically at the unmoving dot. “So it’s working then?”

“I’ve put it in him myself.”

Eve grins at him like a particularly dirty-minded Cheshire Cat.

“I’ll bet you did,” she says salaciously. Q side-eyes her, unimpressed.

“Thoroughly inferior, Moneypenny. I expect something more inventive of you in the future.”

“Noted, sir,” she salutes him with a grin.

An hour later the dot moves. A commotion explodes in the villa, armed guards rushing down to the basement. None of them come back out. Another fifteen minutes later, when the villa owner’s business associate is screaming down the phone to send more backup, Bond strolls out of the basement, readjusting his bloodstained sleeve cuffs. He peers up right into the nearest camera and winks, grinning brilliantly as he tosses a small memory stick up in his hand before pocketing it.

He comes home four days later. The car has all doors and the roof intact, but there _is_ a dead body in the boot.

* * *

As per usual, Bond evades the Medical, blatantly disregards the debriefing, avoids Mallory, and only checks in with his Quartermaster for a well-deserved dressing down for losing his equipment yet again. Q is more lenient this time though, since the car has been returned fairly intact (the blood puddles in the boot will wash out, Bond is certain). After that, they go home.

Bond's been living with Q for something over eight months now. He's not entirely certain how long it's been, and he doesn't much care about pinpointing any particular dates. Probably because it happened sort of gradually - occasional shags progressed to sleepovers in Q's flat, which all then morphed into cohabitation. All the same, that initial phase took no longer than just a month or so. They've never really questioned anything, as it all bizarrely felt right.

Which all ultimately landed Bond in his current predicament - very firmly in love and living with his Quartermaster, and presently sitting on their bed half undressed while Q sweeps critical looks over his body, assessing any damages.

Bond smiles ingratiatingly because he knows he's still marked down for losing yet another palm print-coded gun. Q scowls disapprovingly at a makeshift dressing covering a shallow knife cut on Bond's side.

"Well, at least you didn't use duct tape or a dirty shoelace or something along those lines," he remarks in that gently lilted, haughty tone. Sadly, the dirty shoelace remark is not an exaggeration, and they both know it. Though at least he didn't use it for stitching.

Q deftly takes off the dressing, treats the cut with spray-on antiseptic, and redresses it quickly.

He then reaches out, a little pensively, and brushes his long, skilful fingers over the now faded puncture mark under which the sub-dermal tracker is embedded in Bond's flesh.

"At least we gave it a proper field test," Bond says conversationally. "Did it work alright?"

"Excellent," Q replies simply. "Though I wouldn't exactly call that test 'proper'. It hardly put it through its paces. This tracker is designed to selectively monitor vitals, and it can transmit from the altitude of up to fourteen kilometres, and from up to ten kilometres below sea level. Just in case one of you 00s felt like being kidnapped by a flamboyant villain with a secret base in the depths of the Mariana Trench," he gives a crooked smirk without much amusement in it.

Bond watches him carefully. There is something behind his glasses and behind the soft dark eyelashes, something unsaid and deeply personal.

"You've certainly made it ready for every eventuality," Bond remarks in an attempt at playfulness, feeling out the situation, looking for an opening. As luck would have it, he happens to find it right away.

Q lifts his gaze, looking straight at him. He's pensive again, but there's more to it - there's a touch of puzzlement as he frowns slightly, which colours his eyes a tad clearer green behind his glasses.

"It's never even occurred to you, has it," he states rather than asks, and no, whatever he's referring to, clearly hasn't occurred to Bond. His voice is a little sharp, but by no means scolding or agitated. The sharpness is almost vulnerable, and Bond frowns, tipping his head a little to the side in a silent question.

Q breathes a short sigh and tosses the antiseptic spray back into the first aid kit.

"You think someone will want to harm me because of our involvement," he says in a matter of fact way that sends a flick of ill taste through Bond's flesh. "You're scared," Q looks him straight in the eye without any challenge or without even much confrontation, just plain and open and unavoidable directness of truth, "that someone - your enemies, or people you go against in the future - will take me because of what I mean to you."

It's true and Q isn't finished, so Bond says nothing, looking right back at him.

"I'm the Quartermaster of MI6, James. I'm already a valuable kidnapping target. And there are several ego-inflating, sizeable bounties on my head," he smirks briefly. "But most of all, there are very many people and organisations who want me alive and working for them. There will always be people who will very much want me to do something for them, or _not_ do something, and they'll gladly use any advantage they can get their hands on. You're worried about your enemies using me as a leverage or a means to exact vengeance - it goes the same way for me, James."

Bond blinks, processing. Q is right, it's never even occurred to him - that he could be used against someone, that he could be made into someone's weakness. Especially someone as seemingly remote from direct violence as Q.

But Q wreaks havoc and destruction and death just by typing on his computers, he collapses people's lives into gaping black holes and dust, and that makes enemies. It's also a power so tantalising that many people will want access to it, and will do anything to _persuade_ Q. Bond just never viewed himself as a victim - which means he never saw himself as a _potential_ victim either. A potential leverage to be used against someone. Possibly, because he's never thought of himself as valuable, meaningful enough to someone to influence this sort of sway. That someone could hold him dear enough for it.

Q reaches out and runs a gentle hand through Bond's hair, smiling softly as the short strands sift between his fingers. Then he looks into Bond's eyes again, and there's a darkened, deep fierceness in his gaze that lends even more power to his already spellbinding voice as he speaks again.

"If anyone ever takes you, or tries to harm you, I want all advantages I can possibly have, to find you. And I will find you," he bites on his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth for a moment as he hesitates. "The world isn't big enough to hide you from me."

A hot shiver runs through Bond's bones at those words, so uncharacteristically grandiose for his Quartermaster and yet so openly true. He instinctively knows it's the truth, and yet - he's never been prepared for such a thing. He's been left for dead more than once before, and always was adjusted to the idea (more or less), because expendability is written into the nature of a 00 status.

And yet, the shadow of Silva still haunts him, sometimes, as does the (apparently psychosomatic) occasional twinge in his left shoulder.

Q straddles his lap and looks at him, eyes serious and steady and almost ocean-dark in the dim light of their bedroom lamp, as he gently cups Bond's face in his hands and brushes his thumbs over the cheekbones.

"You won't end up like Silva," Q says in a calm voice with the power of a commanding storm underneath, and Bond watches, mesmerised. "I won't let that happen. I'll scour continents, plunge countries into war, and raze cities to the ground. I'll come for you. I promise you this."

There is real, intoxicating power behind those words, and Bond's heart rate jumps as he feels more heat hum in his blood. Power and competence always allured him, attracted him to those who possess it, and Q has both in excess. Now, though, he uses this power to make a promise that no one has ever made to Bond, nor one he's ever expected to be made to him. And they're both heady with it.

Q kisses him, and Bond welcomes it, eager and burning for it by now. The kiss is hot and wet and deep, and Bond grinds his hips up against Q's, eliciting a moan and causing Q to kiss him harder, lithe body rocking into him, smooth and sensual and powerful. There is this power still, and it's almost electric, and he can feel that lick of static as he pushes his hands under Q's cardigan and slides them up the warm skin of his back.

Q bites on his lower lip almost too hard, breaks the kiss and leans back, pressing his pelvis firmer into Bond's groin as he reaches for the hem of his cardigan. He pulls it off over his head, all haste and need, dark hair mussed and falling over his forehead, behind his glasses that are now crooked on his nose. The shirt follows off almost immediately, revealing Q's smooth, pale torso, broad shoulders, delectably narrow waist, the intricate tattoo on his bicep, and all that soft skin that makes Bond's mouth water and sting with the need to _taste_.

Bond licks his lips, running his hands up Q's sides, and there's that feeling again, almost like he's touching static, thrumming hot in his blood. Q smirks and then he's kissing him again, running his hands through his hair and pushing him down onto the bed so that Bond is sprawled on his back, hands moving to grip Q's hips. They've both still got their trousers on, but that doesn't seem to concern Q who rocks his hips again, and it's Bond's turn to moan, because Q is a dirty little minx who can move in the most sinful of ways.

Having Bond spread out under him, Q takes his time. He trails kisses over Bond's jaw, scraping his teeth along the edge, causing Bond to hiss and dig his fingernails into Q's skin. Q carries on, kissing down his neck, hot tongue flicking teasingly and then dipping into the hollow between his collarbones. He kisses down his chest, making occasional, capricious forays sideways, to Bond's nipples or to one or two particularly sensitive spots he'd found and cleverly memorised.

And then he licks a path up between his pectorals, after which he pulls back slightly and licks his lips, peering at Bond hotly, seductively through the silky strands of his fringe. Bond huffs, lust tight in his chest, and he buries his hands in Q's dark curls, and pulls him further up, into a hot, greedy kiss.

Later, when they're sated and catching their breath, and Q is the one sprawled out on his back now, Bond presses a few soft, thankful kisses to Q's cheek, the corner of his mouth, and then pushes his face into the crook of Q's neck, as he sometimes likes to do. He wraps an arm around Q's waist and snuggles closer.

Q hums out a happy sound that makes Bond smile, and then he can feel those deft, skilled fingers gliding gently up and down his arm in a fond caress.

This is new, Bond thinks – feeling safe.

Well, as safe as a 00 agent can feel at any given moment, what with enemies lurking left and right, but – safe. He has someone making sure he’s as safe as possible, someone looking after him, watching over him, almost. He’s never considered the possibility of having someone like this – rather, he’s always associated love and attachment with needing to protect what he holds dear.

And that remains, of course – he will guard Q with all he has and can possibly give. But he finds himself also protected in return. It’s new and unfamiliar and… wonderful.

He nuzzles further into Q’s neck, pressing a soft kiss, enjoys another, sleepier hum, and ponders this feeling for a bit more. He concludes he likes it.

“I can hear you thinking, you know,” Q slurs sleepily, and Bond chuckles into his neck. “Go to sleep, James.”

And well, Bond may not always do what Q tells him over the comms during missions, but he almost always does what Q tells him in bed. And seeing as they are in bed, Bond does just that, and falls asleep.

Safe.

**Author's Note:**

> There, I hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> It's part of a series, as you can see, the series will be a collection of one-shots in no particular chronological order, but in the same 'verse.
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr](http://beginte.tumblr.com/)


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